Like an olde tyme machine with different sized gears, all flying fast, barely staying in place, and the smokestack constantly whistling. Like an electrical fire inside my skin. Like a hyperactive toddler who really wants to play minigolf instead of doing the things that need to be done, who doesn’t care that it’s 97 degrees and humid as hairy armpits . Minigolf, minigolf! I wish I could actually describe to you what being hypomanic is like. But it’s a state of consciousness, so unless you’ve experienced it, the best I can do is approximate it. Alone, I switch gears fast and flap my hands. With safe people, I talk and talk and talk. Out and about I suck it in, keep a lid on it, smile too much, am extroverted and quickly disengage because I don’t want to appear CRAZY IN PUBLIC. I’m exhausted and exhausting to be around. I am in treatment. I am doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing. All of them. Still, I am hypomanic as balls right now, as very hypomanic balls. I am al...